


Consign Me Not to Darkness

by FinalSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinalSolution/pseuds/FinalSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes knew he was different even as a child.  Being a prodigal genius was one challenge - accidentally discovering he can wake the dead is another tribulation of its own.  It's a fact he's kept well hidden and carefully managed throughout his life, viewing it as more of a nuisance to his work than anything else.</p><p>It becomes a particular nuisance one day when he mistakenly wakes John Watson.  Thankfully for Sherlock, he can't actually recall ever having been dead...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This sounds like the potential making for a fluffy Pushing Daisies crossover - which someone should definitely write, but this is not it, friends. Tags and the like will change as updates arrive; for now we're keeping it Mature for upcoming suicide themes, but a later upgrade to Explicit is likely for Men Going At It.

Sherlock Holmes could not tell anyone of a time when he felt any sense of normalcy. From childhood he could remember being the subject of a number of tests, both of physical and mental capacity, things he did not – could not – consent to, things he would very much like to not dwell on. He had discovered by wayward chance the negative repercussions of attempting to delete such memories, so while there were many things about life he chose not to consciously acknowledge, they were still there, buried in the highest, most decrepit attic corner of his otherwise pristine mind palace, covered in a thin layer of dust. Being sent away to school did nothing to quell the sense of abnormality. The act in itself wasn’t unheard of, especially among his parents’ social class, but the experience had left something to be desired; Sherlock’s days had been filled with countless sneers and barbed words and painful fists, and he _loathed_ the plebeians he was forced to interact with. It was enough to hate them because of their cruelty, but all of them were so immensely predictable and dull. Indeed, if you were to ask his instructors, Sherlock’s sense of self-importance blossomed at a rather early age.

Sherlock long gave up an attempt to be “normal” for the sake of other people, long gave up caring whether or not his mannerisms made others _uncomfortable_ , as it was so often pointed out to him. He had grown into quite a show-off in relation to his deductive ability, supposing that if he was going to be ridiculed regardless, he may as well give people a reason for it; it was a well-known fact that people did little else other than talk, so he would give them something to talk about.

There was, however, one selective talent that Sherlock Holmes possessed that he not only would not flaunt, but chose to not exercise at all. It had been a curious discovery when he was a child, and he had done his share of experimenting on its beneficial use, but even he had the sense to ultimately realize that some things were best left unknown to those around him. As he grew and placed more of his efforts on perfecting his scientific and deductive talents, he all but forgot about the strange gift he had discovered as a child. But, like so many other things about him that he knew were better left alone, it remained buried in his mind palace, locked in a chest and kept safe, cordoned off with fluorescent yellow tape that screamed CAUTION.

* * *

“You have _got_ to stop doing that. You’re making us look like idiots.” Lestrade had him fixed with a steely glare, arms crossed firmly over his chest and his mouth frozen in a perpetual frown of disapproval. He had cornered Sherlock as he had been slinking his way out the door. So much for being undetected.

“It isn’t as though I have to try very hard to accomplish that,” Sherlock sniffed with disdain, pulling himself up a bit to glance down his nose at the inspector. “You do a fine job of it without my help.”

The detective inspector groaned and tossed his hands in the air before placing them on his hips. “Mass texts to every bloody reporter at the conference? You pull a stunt like that again and you’ll not be coming within fifty yards of any crime scene in London, I don’t give a damn what you or your brother say about it.”

Sherlock couldn’t bother to grace the threat with a reply. Lestrade might hold him off for a short interval, but eventually he would cave – he always did. It wasn’t as though this was the first time Lestrade had hung a suspension over his head (or as close to a suspension as one could give to somebody not officially working for Scotland Yard), but eventually there was always a crime that came up that had the Yard completely baffled, and he would be brought back into the fold. Well, not so much “into the fold,” he supposed, he was never _that_ , whatever it was. Lestrade tolerated him because he was an invaluable resource; the rest of the Yarders would sooner he be kicked out and never allowed near another scene.

He had a sneaking suspicion that three serial suicides involving identical poison would qualify as one such case, so didn’t feel particularly inclined to believe the detective inspector’s threat held any water. With that thought firmly planted in his head, he aimed a smug half-smile to the older man, bid him good day, and brushed past him out the door in a flurry of grand coat.

* * *

There were certain things that were not at the top of Sherlock’s “likes” list. Among these were:  
Moronic people (so by default, most of them).

A cup of tea that wasn’t properly made (which thankfully he did not encounter often, unless he found himself beyond the boundaries of England, in which case it occurred with disturbing frequency – it was alarming, what some people thought passed as proper tea).

Social interaction (see point one).

Mummy’s biscuits (though he dare never say anything to her about it; he found Mrs. Hudson’s baking vastly superior, on the occasions he actually ate any of the treats she had taken to bringing upstairs to him in the short time he had been living above her in 221B).

Tchaikovsky (just – do not, ever, ask him about Tchaikovsky, if one values his life or sanity).

Mycroft (luckily he only _had_ to interact with him once a year as per the Holmes family tradition of Christmas dinner, though it was more often than not that Mycroft chose to impose himself upon his little brother without his permission, which is what Sherlock disliked about him the most of all).

Sherlock was not the least bit surprised but was every bit irate at finding point six on this list perched cautiously in his chair when he arrived home from the Yard. Mycroft’s gaze had been cast down his long nose toward his mobile. He did not bother to avert it when Sherlock entered the flat, only saying, “Did you enjoy your game?”

“Did you enjoy your dessert?” he volleyed back, his tone casual, shaking himself out of his coat and scarf and dumping them unceremoniously onto the sofa against the far wall.

“If you intend on refusing my assistance,” Mycroft went on, breezily ignoring the jab but at last dragging his piercing stare up from his phone and onto Sherlock, “I’d recommend you find a flatshare. I’m aware you’re in some little agreement with your landlady, but you surely can’t remain here rent-free, and we both know you hardly bring in the money for it from your… Work.” His hawk-like face scrunched into an expression of disgust as the last word slithered from his mouth, as though it left behind a foul aftertaste.

“Your concern is flattering,” Sherlock replied sardonically, “but unwarranted, since Mrs. Hudson graciously thanked me for the next two months’ rent that she mysteriously received in advance just yesterday morning.”

“Sherlock –“

“It’s handled.” It wasn’t, but Sherlock didn’t care to argue the point, and he supposed it _would_ be handled sooner rather than later. He was loathe to admit it, but Mycroft did have a point. As though to draw the line on the conversation, he swept over to the window that overlooked Baker Street, plucked his violin up from where it had been propped the night before (unusual of him to do – if there was one thing he did take immensely great care of, it was his violin, but he’d been in a strop, and settled for simply placing it down somewhere before he heaved it across the room in frustration), and began to play it.

Screeching, with more of a cat-yowling-in-heat sound than any honest musicality to it.

Mycroft rolled his eyes dramatically and stood, taking the not so subtle cue. “Just do be careful. I do hate for you to be – unattended –“

A particularly sharp shriek of the violin strings in obvious protest of the choice of wording.

“- but it would be wise to take on someone not so put off by your particular talents.”

“And exactly what ‘particular talents’ are those, Mycroft?” The words came out in a snarl. He had halted his bow and, though still not facing his brother, has his head inclined to the side, ever so slightly in Mycroft’s direction.

Mycroft chose not to answer, lifting his umbrella with one hand and raising his mobile again with the other, leaving the flat in silence.

* * *

The night was chill, the air and pavement alike damp with the day’s earlier rainfall. Sherlock, unable to help himself, was preening as he approached the cordoned off crime scene in smooth strides, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, an unmistakable smirk stuck to his face. Just a few days after his reprimanding at the police station and here he was, as he knew he would be, about to take a look at the fourth suicide victim. He knew one would turn up, and he had been correct in his knowledge that, abashed as he was, Lestrade would not be able to continue to keep Sherlock out of the case. Four suicides now and Scotland Yard still had not the faintest clue as to what they were dealing with, out of their depth as always. Sherlock knew the call would come.

_”Note?”_

_“Not as such. I mean – there was, but –“_

_“What? A suspect name? Who?”_

_“You.”_

_“I – Beg your pardon?”_

_“Scrawled note, just next to the body. Stiff’s literally got your name on it.”_

Someone wanted his attention. _Excellent._ The thought sent a surge of adrenaline through him, and the resulting smirk grew just a bit wicked. 

“Oi, what are you doing here?”

“Evening to you, Sergeant Donovan. Lestrade asked me by.”

“Funny of him to ask the suspect to come take a look at his own crime scene.” Donovan set her jaw in a hard line and lifted her chin, as though daring him to counter the accusation.

“Come now, Sally. “

“Why else would there be a piece of paper next to a stiff with your bloody name on it, if he weren’t letting us know who his killer was?”

“Gift wrap,” he answered, almost singing, as he ducked beneath the tape. “Besides,” he amended, beginning to head off toward where he saw the DI awaiting him by the door, “do you really think I’d be so sloppy?”

“No,” Sally admitted, disgruntled. But, she thought as she watched him move away, he would be so psychotic. There was something unnatural about how the man practically lit up like a blazing neon sign when there was a dead body involved; he gave her the creeps, sometimes, when she would watch him do his odd ministrations at the crime scenes, dancing about, preening like a peacock, putting his freakish tendencies on display for the entire force to see. She watched as he shot another well-aimed smug grin in her direction as he turned to enter the building with the detective inspector and the forensic analyst, Anderson. 

Sally felt a slight shiver, and could not be entirely sure if it was due to Sherlock, or simply the cool air of the night. She pulled her jacket a little tighter around herself.

* * *

The air was stale and musty, and the permeating odor of rot and mold curled around Sherlock and invaded his nostrils. The dump site was a years-long abandoned warehouse in an old industrial section that had been greatly out of use since the mid-1900s; many of the buildings had been condemned long ago, while others were home to a portion of the city’s homeless population, along with a few of the less savory criminal types. 

Not exactly one’s typical first choice to stage a suicide.

The victim – male, short – was splayed face down on the concrete floor, one arm trapped beneath, the other resting by his head; he almost appeared twisted in a restless nightmare. The combination of the building’s murky lighting and the harsh halogens set up by the team cast sharp, otherworldly shadows over the body; Sherlock noted the slightly gaunt face and the staring, unseeing cobalt eyes. He was hardly aware of Lestrade commanding his team to give Sherlock his space to work; everything was shut out except for the body, his gaze stealing up and down, brain already beginning to rapid-fire in its deductive sequence. 

He circled around slowly, the impression of a wild cat surrounding its prey, abruptly stopped at the head and crouched, bringing his magnifier out to allow closer inspection. The crumpled scrap of paper by the victim’s side – lower, fallen out of the pocket presumably – beckoned. Indeed, at a quick glance, Sherlock saw his own name scrawled across – hastily, by the appearance of it – and was struck with a thought. Slight twinge of disappointment. Not a calling card from one sociopath to another, no, more likely this man would have been a potential client.

Well, Sherlock supposed he could still take the case, considering.

“Well?” Lestrade prompted, an edge of impatience in his voice. Sherlock straightened slightly, still perched squarely on his haunches before the dead man, and slid a latex-gloved hand beneath the corpse, gingerly feeling for the hand trapped beneath. 

“Not much to tell. He’s a war vet, by the looks of it, Afghanistan or Iraq.” He pulled his hand back, extracting a slim, standard cell phone from John Doe’s grip. He turned it over in his hands, scanning the casing quickly before flipping the device on. “Name of Watson. Dreadfully common, but there’s something to go on. Apparent alcoholic. Not much of a surprise there.” He scrolled hastily through the phone’s recent texts and calls, giving a displeased grunt after a few moments.

“Problem?”

“Wrong, is the brother of an alcoholic, possibly not one himself, though didn’t appear to be in habits of taking very good care of himself.” He held the phone out to Lestrade as the detective inspector crossed the room to retrieve it. “Engraving on the back – Harry Watson. But there are texts from a Harry Watson in the phone’s inbox, so a relative who has passed the phone down. Seems our John Doe’s name is, in fact, John.”

“And how exactly do you know he’s military? Or related to a drunk, for that matter?”

Sherlock merely responded by giving Lestrade a look that clearly said _so pedestrian_ and then wordlessly leaning back in to take further stock of John Watson. His face was now almost parallel with the dead man’s, his luminescent eyes staring directly into the clouded irises that could now see nothing.

“Who are you?” he breathed softly, so low that it would have been impossible for anyone else in the room to hear him. “Something brought you to me, but what?”

For a beat, it seemed as though the room, the entire warehouse building, was ringing with a deafening silence. And then there was a faint wheeze, a quiet intake of breath; the air suddenly felt dense, and Sherlock momentarily couldn’t breathe.

Another rattled breath echoed around them, and a wheezing intake crashed through John Watson’s lungs like a ricochet bullet. Sherlock jerked back slightly, seeing the man’s eyes come into focus and pointedly fixate on him. John groaned, made an attempt to push himself up, his arms shaking, froze mid-rise and took another shaky gulp of air.

“Christ!” shouted Lestrade. “Get a medic in here!” he barked over his shoulder at a young gaping uniform who seemed to have forgotten how to work his jaw shut.

Sherlock reeled up and away from the man in front of him in a speedy retreat. No sooner than he had cleared the space, John wretched onto the floor, his body working to expel the poison that still lined his stomach.

“Leave it to your incompetent team to not check to make sure the homicide victim is in fact dead before you waste my time,” Sherlock hissed, retreating to take place at the entryway of the room. It suddenly felt too confined for his liking; he resisted the urge to tug his scarf loose, instead cramming his hands into his trouser pockets.

“He’s been lying there for a good hour since before you arrived!” shot Anderson, materializing on the other side of Lestrade. “No pulse or vitals to speak of –“

“Either you are more of a blithering idiot than I realized, Anderson…” Sherlock’s eyes lingered on the man called John Watson and he swallowed, trying to disperse the lump of anxiousness that had formed in his throat as he watched the man heave again before finally managing to stand unsteadily. “Or we’ve all just been witness to what some sheep-minded groups might call a miracle, but what I think the medical community refers to as the Lazarus phenomenon.”

_Or a terrible miscalculation. Damn._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock buzzed with nervous energy outside of the warehouse. The night was awash with the sounds of incessant chatter, Lestrade’s team flitting around to clean up the scene, and the blinding lights of the ambulance and squad cars, which lit up the surrounding darkness like a sea of fireflies. The Detective Inspector himself was standing next to the rear of the ambulance, which had its doors opened and one pallid John Watson sitting squatly, his feet scarcely touching the pavement, with a ridiculous neon orange blanket draped over his shoulders. One arm was stretched out absently, a medic checking his blood pressure. He seemed focused on Lestrade, save for the fact that every few seconds his eyes would dart from the inspector’s face in varying directions, as though he were searching for something he had misplaced, or like he had heard something strange but couldn’t quite make out the direction from where it came. His kept his mouth set in a thin line, giving a curt nod or shake of his head in response to whatever Lestrade was saying.

Sherlock knew that while Lestrade meant well, his attempts at questioning would get him nowhere. While it was true that dead men told no tales, in Sherlock’s experience they were much more yielding of information than live ones, and the fact of the matter was, John Watson was far more useful to him dead than alive. As he thought this over, silently watching the previously dead man, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching into anxious fists in his coat pockets, an unsatisfied scowl plastered itself onto his face. He had made a right mess of the situation, had been allowed one brief moment to correct it, and had missed it. Absently, his eyes drifted up toward a nearby CCTV camera that perched inconspicuously at the corner of the street, his gaze lingering for a few seconds before dragging away again and back to his not-victim.

He scarcely noticed when there was a brush of movement to his right, and gave no notice to the other human being standing near him until she spoke. 

“Bit weird, isn’t it?” Sally’s tone was clipped, but ever so slightly softer than it normally was towards him; she was so quiet that the words were nearly whipped away by the wind. “You hear of people coming back after a few minutes of cardiac arrest, but this is unheard of.”

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. “Your boyfriend obviously missed something vital – quite literally.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you knew about that,” she spat with a look of contempt. She turned to look up at him. “At least now you’ve got some company. A freak for a freak.”

“Do give my condolences to Anderson over the loss of his job,” Sherlock volleyed, ignoring the remark. “I’m sure he’ll be searching the classifieds after this botch up.” He pivoted on a heel to make his leave, only to be verbally pulled back by one of the uniforms.

“Sir, the Detective Inspector wants to see you.”

Sherlock did not bother to hide the elaborate roll of his eyes, but shifted direction nonetheless to join Lestrade by the ambulance. He made a point of avoiding eye contact with John Watson.

“Given the fact your corpse is now breathing and walking on its own,” he began without preamble, “I can’t give you any more information than you already know until another body turns up, as I’m sure it will. Give or take several days.”

Watson shifted uncomfortably from where he perched, coughing to clear his throat. “Could you not call me that?” Sherlock stole a glance at the smaller man; he looked positively green, and Sherlock thought for a moment he may be ready to be sick again. Not bothering to be subtle about it, he shifted away slightly.

“Yeah, well, I’m insisting he take the ambulance to hospital, and I want you with him.”

Sherlock prickled. “What? Why me?” He had all the grace and dignity of a put-upon child in that moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Surely you’ve got someone with a better bedside manner. Donovan, for instance.” Hannibal Lecter would likely have a better bedside disposition than Sherlock, but he didn’t think it wise to make the remark.

“You,” Lestrade emphasized, pointing a finger at him, “are going. You were there when he came to. He can’t seem to recall how he wound up at the warehouse or who shoved the poison down his throat, but if he happens to remember anything, I want you there to hear it.”

“I assure you he won’t.”

Lestrade crossed his arms and lifted his chin in defiance, unwilling to back down from his ground. “Sherlock, do not fight me on this. Go.”

It was only made more infuriating by the fact that Sherlock was, in fact, of the knowledge that John wouldn’t remember a thing, and he was only wasting his precious time. With a grunt and a grumbled “for God’s sake,” he hauled himself up into the back of the ambulance, and made it a point to make the ride as excruciatingly quiet as possible.

* * *

“Mister Holmes? You’re welcome to sit in with John while he waits for the doctor.” The nurse – mother, adulterer, owns a rabbit, probably the kid’s – flashed him what was probably meant to be an inviting smile.

“I’d suggest breaking it off now, your husband’s going to take you through the wringer in court,” he mumbled as he glided past her with a rustle of fabric and repositioned himself in the small “room” where they had taken John, nothing more than a three-walled cubicle with a drawn curtain for some feigned semblance of privacy. The cluster of rooms was drenched in the smell of disinfectant and iodine, the too-bright blinding fluorescent lights giving everything a nightmarish glare. John sat on the bed, trying his best to hold onto what bit of dignity he had left by covering himself with the thin, scratchy blanket, as he was sheathed in nothing but the paper-thin hospital gown, his street clothes hung over a chair in the corner of the room.

“You don’t really have to be here,” he said as Sherlock pushed back the curtain and stepped into the incredibly small area, which seemed even tinier with his looming stature taking up so much of the space.

“According to Lestrade, I do. I wouldn’t put it past him to check with staff to make sure I came in and didn’t run off as soon as you were inside.”

“Somehow I don’t see you as the type of person to really care if he checks in on you or not.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth ticked upwards in a brief smile. “Figured that much out already, have you?”

“That you’re a bit of an arrogant sod? Yes, it didn’t take very long.”

“That all?” His tone held a hint of a leer, thinly disguised as teasing.

“Afraid so. I’m no detective.” John tilted his head. “Why, what have you figured out about me in the past hour?”

“The past hour? You fidget with your right hand when you’re under stress. “

“That all?” John mimicked, a smirk curling at his mouth.

“You said the past hour. Honestly, I got much more from you when you were –“ He paused, remembering John’s unfavorable response to being referred to as “the corpse.”

“Indisposed,” he finished lamely.

“How?” He sounded skeptic. John crossed his arms and lifted his chin slightly, indignant.

“You’re an army doctor, recently discharged, with service in either Afghanistan or Iraq… Wounded in action with a resulting psychosomatic injury according to your therapist, though in fairness to you that bit I wasn’t able to deduce until I saw you up and walking. You’ve got a brother who wants you to keep in touch though you aren’t terribly inclined to do so, possibly because you aren’t fond of his drinking, or you were fond of his wife, who he recently separated from.”

John sat quietly for a full minute, mouth slightly agape, as though he had forgotten how to close it, his brain not quite able to process motor movement and what he had just been told all at the same time. Finally, in a hushed whisper of amazement, he said, “Bloody hell, that was fantastic. How on earth did you get all of that?”

“Haircut – very military. Your face and hands are tanned, but not above the wrists, so it isn’t from sunbathing on a vacation. The rest came from your mobile; firstly, the messages from Mike Stamford clearly indicate your training at Bart’s. Army doctor, then. I first assumed you were in fact the person with an alcohol problem, then noticed the messages from your brother on your phone – the same name engraved on the back of the device. So, a hand-me-down to make sure you keep in touch. Scuff marks around the wall plug-in indicates shaking hands – there are a lot of them, repeated over time. You never see a sober man’s phone with them, never see a drunk’s without them.”

“And the wife?”

“’Harry Watson, from Clara.’ Again, engraving. Rather expensive gift for a boyfriend, that phone, so it’s no giant leap to assume husband and wife. Now, if she had left him, he’d have kept the phone – people do that, sentiment or… something. But he gave it to you, no, he left her, he wanted rid of it. How close am I?”

For a flicker of a moment, Sherlock was certain that John would leap from the bed and clock him right on the chin. What happened instead bewildered even him.

“Almost spot on. That’s … That’s amazing! I can’t believe you even got the drinking bit.”

“Bit of a shot in the dark. Good one, though. “ Sherlock couldn’t suppress the grin of satisfaction that snaked its way onto his face. “You said almost, though. What did I get wrong?”

“Well, you’re right about the war – Afghanistan, by the way… Wait, how did you know I had a therapist?”

“You were discharged home from a war zone with a psychosomatic limp and probable post-traumatic stress, of course you have a therapist.”

“Right.” John licked his lips before continuing. “Harry and I don’t get on, never have, got only worse with the drinking. Harry and Clara split up three months ago.” He paused for dramatic effect and shot Sherlock a sardonic look. “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

Sherlock’s face fell. “Sister,” he said slowly, drawing the word out. “Harry’s your _sister_. There’s always something.”

“To be fair, most people make that assumption.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Do I look like most people to you?” He fell quiet, shifting on his feet before taking the single stride it took to place him at the corner chair. He reached nimble fingers into John’s coat pocket.

“Oi!” John seemed to be about to make a scramble from the bed, recalled his barely-clothed state, then thought better of it. “The hell are you doing?”

“The one thing I can’t figure out though is why you were carrying this around.” Sherlock turned to him, gingerly holding the scrap of paper between his fingers with his name scrawled hastily on it.

“What business is it of yours?”

“Considering half of the Yard took it as a mark to pin on me to make me a suspect, I think it’s very much my business.”

“That’s… Oh my God. You’re joking.”

Sherlock’s mouth drew into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. “I hardly joke about being a murder suspect.”

“ _You’re_ Sherlock Holmes?”

“Of course. Who else would I be?”

“I was supposed to meet Stamford at Bart’s to meet _you_.”

Well, this was a slight unexpected turn of events. Sherlock flipped back in his memory, trying to think of why Stamford would want to introduce an old Bart’s colleague to him. The day prior, Sherlock remembered barreling past the stout man on his way to the lab. Mike, being the overly cheerful bloke that he was, had asked Sherlock how he was doing, and he had said -

_Oh._

Sherlock’s head bent ever so slightly to the side. “He told you he had someone searching for a flatshare… Presumably because you are, as well. Can’t very well live alone in London on an army pension, I suppose.”

“I bumped into him at the park,” John confirmed, nodding his head as he thought back to the encounter. “Told him I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting me for a flat mate, and he told me I wasn’t the first person to say that to him. He gave me a name, but said he’d have to introduce me later in the day because he had some business to take care of just then. “

“The texts asking why you weren’t at Bart’s,” Sherlock concluded. “You were due to meet him so that he could introduce us, and somehow found yourself half-dead from poison in a warehouse.”

“Fully dead, as you keep reminding me.”

Sherlock felt a churning in his stomach and his mouth was suddenly dry, as though he had been swallowing sawdust by the buckets. A man who had been looking for him had wound up dead; Sherlock had been called in to his crime scene, whereupon he had – And now here they both were. Sherlock was almost inclined to believe this was one hell of a coincidence, except he was hardly one to believe in coincidences. But then, he didn’t exactly believe in divine intervention either, so what was it?

It was at this moment of swollen silence that the emergency doctor chose to peel back the curtain to the room. He glanced from Sherlock to John, then back again before approaching the bed and extending a hand to John.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Doctor Russo. I’ll be handling your examination, Doctor Watson. I hear you’ve had a unique experience.”

Sherlock took the cue to make an exit while he had the opportunity. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll be in the waiting area, Doctor.” He didn’t bother to clarify which one he was addressing, surely John wasn’t that daft.

Sherlock could hear Russo say something as he walked down the corridor, and John’s response of, “we aren’t…” He couldn’t catch the entire sentence before he was both out of earshot and had gone elsewhere mentally all the same. Perhaps John Watson would prove to be more of an asset alive than dead after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was cut a bit shorter than I intended, but I didn't want to phase into the next bit directly after the hospital scene, so there you have it. Also, the Lazarus phenomenon isn't a phrase Sherlock pulled from his pretentious rear end - it's [a thing](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lazarus_Phenomenon).


End file.
